I am an insensitive jerk. I am also wearing wool and eating a carne asada burrito. I should be sent to PETA prison.
Dear Gia,
I’m glad I had a chance to meet Bailey when I came over to see Tucker. I left that day thinking about how we are so eager to put our best selves out into the world that we are sending our pets, more lovable versions of ourselves, to stand in for us. Our pets have become our avatars. That is the reason why you are Photoshopping Tucker’s fur. And so sorry Bailey is dead.
I am an asshole.
Dear Gia,
I’m so sorry for your loss. It’s heartbreaking. I know how hard it will be to carry on without your angel. I’m sure he’s waiting for you at the Rainbow Bridge.
I pick up Alexander Pushkin and cradle him in my arms, hoping that I won’t be saying good-bye to him anytime soon. Looking deeply into his blank feline eyes, I whisper, “You are my booboo, Pushikins.”
My grandmother Frances would be turning over in her grave. She never had the patience for nineteenth-century poetry. Frances also never had pets. What was she going to do with a cat or dog in her row-house apartment? With two daughters to raise, no hired help, a clerical job at the welfare department, and her husband, Johnny, working nights as a movie projectionist, who was going to walk a dog or change the kitty litter? There were letters to write and care packages to send to her brothers fighting overseas in World War II. Her parents, grandmother, and sister lived nearby, and someone was always getting sick and needing her patented leaden matzoh ball soup. Plus, spinster aunt Bea, the garment factory seamstress, who might have liked girls, was always showing up with her dirty laundry that had to be hand-washed and dried on a line. Later there would be grandchildren to babysit and Johnny with his early-onset Alzheimer’s. She would no sooner cradle a cat than a boot.
Me? I just wasted half an hour scratching my cat’s chin today and I’m looking forward to a nice long skin-to-fur cuddle tonight.
“I wuv you,” I say, kissing the mouth that hunts more vermin than I’ll ever know. For the briefest moment, I contemplate what it would be like to breast-feed a cat, but of course, I don’t. Everybody knows that cats’ tongues are like sandpaper. Right?
Ice-cream cones in hand, we’d sing as the wind rushed through the pines, blowing tangles through our virgin hair.
welcome home, sunshine
I’ve flown north and am speeding through winding mountain passes, past sun-dappled vineyards. Three hours into the drive, I’m deep in the redwood forest. I’m sure I’ve missed the turnoff when I spot the hand-painted signs tacked onto the tallest trees on Earth. Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost. I’ve always hated that aphorism, because isn’t it a lot like that saying about paranoids? But I Hurry Up and Slow Down and Yield to the Present because a bearded fellow with a mischievous smile and rainbow clown wig is making the universal motion for me to pull to the side of the road. He roller-skates over and introduces himself as Huggy Bear. It looks like Huggy Bear has been hitting the honey jar; a roll of hairy fat spills over the top of his low-rider bell-bottoms. He’s giggling as he asks me to get out of the car. I leave the safety of my rented vehicle and he invites me to howl with him. It doesn’t seem like he is going to take no for an answer. He lets loose a piercing coyote howl and I produce a noise that sounds like a ferret being strangled.
Looking down, I notice that his watch face is covered by a strip of masking tape: the words Right meow are printed on it. That’s unexpected. He hands me a brown paper bag, into which I am to deposit my computer and phone. Huggy Bear leans in and whispers two words that shake me to my core: “Welcome home.”
Twenty-four hours earlier I was on a street corner near my home in Los Angeles. I had gotten a ticket for jaywalking on my way to a yoga class. I was stressed out because our health insurance premium was skyrocketing. Now my blood pressure was skyrocketing, I’d missed the class, and I had a $174 ticket to boot. Standing there, seething, ticket in my hand, I noticed a poster advertising a summer camp for adults in the window of my local haunt, the Dandelion Cafe. The food isn’t very good at the Dandelion, but the calico tablecloths and triple-layer coconut cake under glass remind me of a joint my husband and I frequented on getaways to Big Sur before parenthood turned our vacation budget into braces, math tutoring, and twelve-panel at-home drug test kits. The Camp Lazydaze poster was a warm mustard yellow. The list of activities included crafts, a talent show, and archery. You can find craft centers in just about any city, and every living room in Los Angeles is a stage for a talent show, but archery, that’s something you only do at summer camp or a Renaissance Pleasure Faire.
In the mid-1970s, my sister and I were sent to Camp Blue Star, nestled deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains outside of Hendersonville, North Carolina. Blue Star has been owned and operated by one family since its inception. As of 2015, the Popkin family is on its fourth generation of continuous commitment to being the summer “home away from home” for Jewish children from all over, but primarily the Southern states of the U.S. The camp website exhorts would-be campers to join the “Blue Star family,” and that’s exactly how we thought of it.*
We played sports, stitched lanyards, swam in the great outdoors, and participated in a “living Judaism program.” This consisted mostly of Israeli dancing and singing songs commemorating the Holocaust.
My fondest memory is of our ice-cream runs into town. Piled onto an old flatbed farm truck, only a rickety wooden fence penning us in, we’d careen around the hairpin switchbacks of the moonlit mountain roads. On the drive back, ice-cream cones in hand, we’d sing as the wind rushed through the pines, blowing tangles through our virgin hair.
On a wagon bound for market, there’s a calf [think: Jewish person] with a mournful eye. High above him there’s a swallow [think: Nazi!] winging swiftly across the sky. How the winds [think: the world!] are laughing. They laugh with all their might. Laugh and laugh the whole day through and half the summer’s night.*
You might think that the sheer weight of these sorrowful songs would bring us to our knees, but it didn’t. We’d return to pull off some prank like filling someone’s underwear with shaving cream, short-sheeting a bed, or locking an unsuspecting bunkmate out of the cabin while they were nude. And somewhere in a box of memorabilia, I have a certificate from the last of my summers at Blue Star, during which time I was recognized, in a ceremony witnessed by the entire camp, for having scored the most hickies for my age group, second session.
Summer camp was something of a distant memory until I was hit with a bout of crippling anxiety at auditions. I consulted a hypnotherapist, who asked me to fork over two hundred dollars and told me to close my eyes and go to a “happy place.”* What popped into my mind was the infirmary at Blue Star. At least once during each summer, I pretended to be sick so I could spend a solitary day lying about, lost in whatever Kurt Vonnegut novel I was reading. Once refreshed, I returned to plot when Bunk 4 of Pioneer Girls should untie Jeannette Weinberg’s bathing suit top so as to cause her the most embarrassment. That’s how camp became my “happy place,” and that’s exactly what I needed now.
I went home and Googled Camp Lazydaze. A cursory look at the website showed the kind of pictures you might expect: adult campers wading into a stream, racing across an athletic field, chowing down in a mess hall.
A notice on the site flashed the news that the next and last session of the summer was starting in less than twenty-four hours, and in the way that the Internet allows you to do things so quickly that before you know it you’ve posted a tweet that ends a friendship or any chance of future employment, I was going to camp. And because I’m a creature of the twenty-first century, I put the news of my upcoming adventure on all of my social media feeds.
It wasn’t until after I clicked the nonrefundable purchase that I noticed the camp wasn’t local to me. It was in Northern California, near San Francisco. That was a plane ticket. Scrolling farther down, I learned it w
as actually three hours north of the city. That meant I’d need to rent a car, but I’d paid for camp and announced it on Twitter, and once you’ve put something on Twitter, you can’t take it back.
I didn’t bother to read the lengthy camp handbook that downloaded into my e-mail because I had to pack, and besides, I’d gone to camp. I got this. I mean, it’s camp.
“You’re going to an ass-ram?” my father asked when I called to let my parents know of my plan.
“It’s ‘ashram,’ Dad, and no, I’m going to summer camp.”
“You hated camp,” my mother called out. “Blue Star made you write letters home every Friday night before Shabbat dinner and you always wrote that you hated it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, all kids say that,” I told them. I hung up and told my husband.
“You’re what?”
“I’m going to summer camp.”
“Are you seeing someone?” he asked.
“No.”
“Well, if I ever tell you I’m going to camp, you’ll know I’m seeing someone.”
If howling with Huggy Bear could be considered “seeing someone,” then he was right.
After parking my car, I am issued my very own camp tin water cup by a young man with a handlebar mustache painted on his face, wearing shorts and a cape. His name tag reads Sir Racha. Mr. Hot Sauce informs me I have been assigned to Hawk Village and hands me a name tag on which to write my nickname.
“No thanks, I’m not really a nickname person.”
“We don’t use names at camp, just nicknames. There’s no talk of ‘W,’ work; no technology; no mention of your age; no clocks; and no alcohol or drugs are allowed on the grounds.” I really should have read that handbook. There are members of my family who call me Sergeant, and I’ve heard myself referred to as “cranky” or “an acquired taste,” but I decide to go for irony and christen myself Sunshine.
I set off for my village, stopping in at the camp store along the path. Located as we are in the Anderson Valley, this outpost could be renamed the Wes Anderson Valley, as someone appears to have indulged in repeated viewings of Moonrise Kingdom. The store is stocked with items that seem to have come from the movie’s prop department and have no value other than kitsch. There is a collection of portable record players, small valises covered with vintage travel stickers, classic aluminum scouting canteens, and scratchy army blankets. Next to the store is the infirmary, which is manned by a young woman dressed in old-fashioned nurse’s whites complete with a starched cap. She’s reclining on an ancient wooden wheelchair, knitting a sweater, and she looks to be at least five months pregnant. I’m unclear as to whether or not she is an actual medical professional because the red cross on her cap has been hand-drawn with a Sharpie.
At Hawk Village, I meet my counselor, Popcorn. She’s a hearty gal with a mane of golden, curly tresses and extremely approachable, which makes sense because everyone likes popcorn, right?
The twenty women who make up our kettle gather around Popcorn for our initiation rites into Hawk Village.* We put on neckerchiefs festooned with the image of our avian namesake and feather earrings. We’re taught the official Hawk greeting and encouraged to use it when we encounter our brethren. Our “cry” turns out to be a two-syllable piercing shriek accompanied by a gesture that resembles a bird’s wings flapping, which technically isn’t correct, because as I understand it, hawks glide, they don’t flap. I do it anyway.
Popcorn takes us on a short tour of the village. There’s a bathhouse a half a mile away with running water, but when she announces with some pride, “We’ve got our very own outdoor latrine,” I know I won’t be getting much use out of that official camp tin cup.
Our bunks turn out to be more crèche than cabin. The shallow open-air structures bring to mind the kind of tableaus typically associated with Christmas nativity scenes. Children’s bunk beds have been hastily placed inside them. But where is the fourth wall? I walk around the side of what I will learn is called an Adirondack shelter to see if there’s a hinged barn door that we’ll close at night, but there’s not even mosquito netting.
I whisper to another Hawk that my most recent camping experience, with my kid’s school, was at a state park where the cabins had Jacuzzis and margaritas with crushed ice were served with dinner.
“That’s not camping, Sunshine, that’s glamping,” she says in a voice dripping with contempt.
Popcorn invites us to circle up and say what we hope to accomplish at camp in one word, and the consensus of the group is that they want to be more social. When it’s my turn, I say, “Chillax.” Chillax? I’ve never said that word, except to make fun of it. Is that a word that Sunshine regularly uses?
We learn that “in the amount of time it takes to boil seven consecutive eggs,” we’ll be heading down to the costume parade. This is the first time this weekend, but not the last, that I hear time referred to in this way. The thing is, I hosted a TV show for six years that was equal parts comedy and cooking, but I still can’t remember how long it takes to boil an egg. Is it three minutes or ten minutes? And are we talking about hard- or soft-boiled eggs? What about the time it takes to heat the water to boil the eggs and the time it takes to let the eggs cool down? Over the next two days, I will find that adapting to the technology ban is surprisingly easy, but clocks are what I miss the most, not only because I can’t figure out how to plan my day, but because I am continually offered references to things that hold no meaning for me. A meal will be happening in the time it takes for MDMA to kick in, to pasteurize goat cheese, to get a tattoo removed, or to watch an episode of Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell, to which I have to repeatedly inquire, “How many Seinfelds is that?”
“Before we head to the athletic field for the opening ceremony,” Popcorn says, “we’re going to do a little download. Talk to the person sitting closest to you and tell them how you’re feeling.” Oh, no, I’m sitting next to the same bird of prey who introduced me to the term “glamping.” Her name tag reads Serene. Serene is lanky with a boyish haircut, and has the unmistakable drawl and countenance of a Midwesterner, but in less than the time it takes to pull a shot of espresso, I find out that she and I have something in common. We’re the only campers who have chosen ironic nicknames.
Serene is anything but. She was a convoy driver in the army who served in Baghdad before the tanks even had armor. She’s been through firefights and lived in war zones, but nothing is as terrifying to her as the emotional pain she’s in right now. “I’m only here because a friend brought me; she’s worried because I haven’t been eating and I’m so depressed.” Her husband, also former military, has fallen out of love with her and Serene told him to decide what he wants to do by the time she gets back from camp. I listen to her, wishing that we were just a bit further up the coast at the Esalen Institute, a new age retreat center that is staffed by trained professionals, because the only person in charge here is a counselor who has named herself after a buttery snack food and I’m afraid that I’m out of my depth. “I feel like a failure,” she blurts out. I’d like to tell her I was fired from my own comedy act once, so I know a lot about failures. I’d like to know her age, because that seems like an important factor when talking about big life transitions. I could tell her that because of my relatively advanced age, I’ve learned that it’s possible to live through monumental disappointments, but I want to observe the rules of the camp. On the other hand, she could be suffering from PTSD, so what can I say that will be meaningful? I listen to her catalogue of woes until it’s time to go to the athletic field.
The grassy expanse is teeming with two hundred funsters, a colorful bunch ranging from Plushies to people on stilts or wielding puppets. It’s like a cultural exchange program where the masked meet the caped. I grab hold of Serene’s hand and we execute a passable limbo down the center of the parade.
Huggy Bear jumps onstage and announces, “We’re going to raise the ca
mp flag to show we’re in session. To see who will get the honor, we’re going to play rock, paper, scissors.” All of us. At the same time. We’re told to turn to our right and play the person next to us, and then whoever wins turns to their right and plays that person, until we have a winner. I’ve heard the term “clusterfuck”—in fact, I’ve used the term “clusterfuck”—but I’ve never actually been in one until right now. In an instant, there’s a rush of sound and movement and jostling for position that I suspect is not unlike the Soviet bread lines of the 1970s. I’m eliminated in the amount of time it would take to pour the glass of pinot noir I’d like to be drinking if alcohol were permitted. The winner raises the flag and the crowd goes wild.
We head into the mess hall, and I’m so disoriented I can barely down my quinoa kale loaf. Tables full of campers are yelling challenges to adjoining tables over who has more “spirit” and a rumor circulates that the flag has been captured. As a camper with a flag stuffed down her shiny spandex catsuit dashes out of the mess hall, Huggy Bear appears with a megaphone and announces the imminent arrival of Gummy Bear, the camp director. Huggy and Gummy are brothers. Like Blue Star, this is a family enterprise.
Gummy Bear’s entrance is heralded in a manner befitting the second coming of Christ. My fellow campers worshipfully chant his name. This will be repeated whenever he materializes during the weekend. The camp is unmistakably his brainchild. He is dressed in a 1950s scoutmaster uniform, sports a comically oversized handlebar mustache, and carries a clipboard.*
The crowd is so enthralled, I flash on images of Spahn Ranch and worry this “family” might have some things in common with Charles Manson’s Family. On his orders, the campers commit a rock-and-roll felony. They butcher the lyrics of Tom Petty’s classic “Free Fallin’” by altering “I’m free . . . free fallin’” to “I’m free . . . free balling.”
Wherever You Go, There They Are Page 10
